


does everything have to resort to violence?

by dendral



Category: Grand Theft Auto V, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character Death, GTA!AU, Gratuitous Violence, M/M, gratuitous use of the word 'fuck'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 14:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendral/pseuds/dendral
Summary: The City of Los Santos is not a place for the faint of heart. The people who reside there are ruthless and jaded, chasing wealth and fame with no thought for anyone else. And the Jedi, the most ruthless of them all, have an ironclad grip on the city. Petty theft, coercion, shady business deals, full-scale heists—you name it, the Jedi have done it. So long as one stays out of their affairs, one can live their life without ever coming face-to-face with a member of the infamous gang. Anakin's broke, stuck in an awful job with an awful boss, and lacking all prospects. He doesn't want his mom to worry about him, though, so he's pretty good at staying out of trouble. At least, hewas. Until he tried to steal a Jedi's car.The GTA V AU that absolutely no one asked for.





	does everything have to resort to violence?

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the Obikin Big Bang! This is what I've been working on instead of Cataclasm recently, lmfao. I'm sorry. I hope someone out there is also super into this trash fire AU, because god knows I am. This ain't done yet! Idk when it'll be finished because I have no free time! But hopefully it won't take me too long.

“Afternoon, Wald,” Anakin greets as he walks into the garage, jacket slung over one shoulder. The garage smells like gasoline and exhaust fumes and Anakin inhales slowly, savoring the scent. He pauses next to the car Wald is elbow-deep in the hood of—an Ocelot Jackal, he notes, good grab—and Wald glances up, squinting.

“Oh, hey, Ani,” he says, and extracts a hand to wipe it on an oil-covered rag. He jerks his stained thumb over his shoulder. “Watto said he wanted to see you when you got here.”

Anakin doesn’t bother holding back a sigh. Like every small-time crook in Los Santos, Watto fancies himself some sort of high-end businessman. But at the core, he’s a cruel man and a liar, coercing people to buy cars they can’t afford from him. Watto wouldn’t ever call it stealing, claiming to be a ‘respectable businessman,’ but repossessing vehicles he’s sold through shady financial schemes—and other methods Anakin hasn’t been enlightened about—is pretty much theft, in Anakin’s opinion, since there’s no warning before Watto sends either Anakin, Kitster, or Wald out to reclaim the vehicle. Anakin wouldn’t have even applied to Watto’s garage if ‘stealing cars’ had been included in the job description, and if it weren’t for the fact that he really needed the cash, he would’ve quit as soon as he found out.

As it stands, Anakin has little choice than to keep the job. If there’s anything worse than being poor in Los Santos, it’s being _broke_ and poor in Los Santos, and so far, nobody else has been willing to hire him. “What does he want this time?”

Wald shrugs with one shoulder. “If it’s to present you another employee of the month award, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

“You still hung up about that?” Anakin asks as he walks towards the front of the shop. “Seriously? We’ve gone over this. Those awards are fuckin’ meaningless, Wald.”

“You only say that ‘cause you keep getting them,” Wald grumbles and Anakin rolls his eyes.

“Wald, we steal cars,” Anakin says. “We’re not exactly a model business here. Is Kitster in?”

“It’s not stealing cars, it’s repossession. That’s what happens when people buy shit they can’t afford, and then can’t pay up,” Wald grunts, then goes back to his repairs, ignoring the inquiry about Kitster.

With another roll of his eyes, Anakin makes his way across the shop floor to Watto’s office, tucked away into a corner of the building. Kitster’s nowhere to be seen, so Anakin figures he must’ve been sent out.

Watto doesn’t know he’s here yet, so there’s no rush to get to the office. He walks slowly, admiring the work done on the cars displayed—most of it his own. The light from the gigantic front window bounces off the pristine hoods and makes the paint jobs shine. If there’s anything worth having this job for, it’s being able to fix up complete wrecks so they look brand new and work just as well as a fresh car, sometimes better. Watto doesn’t care about the quality of their repairs so long as the customers are fooled and buy them, but Anakin takes a certain amount of pride in his work. And as disappointed as his mom would be if she knew the exact requirements of his job, Anakin has to admit that he enjoys the free modifications Watto lets him do on his own car.

If he had the money for college, though, he definitely wouldn’t be stealing cars. He’d be a goddamn engineer.

No good lingering on it, though. He doesn’t have the money, and never will, no matter how many times Watto promises he’ll get a raise. So he gets to do this garbage instead. As long as he’s careful, he’ll never get caught and thrown into jail, which is really all he can ask for at this point—the last thing he wants to do is break his mom’s heart.

Anakin pushes open the door to Watto’s office. “You wanted to see me, boss?”

“Ah, Ani!” Watto says and gestures to one of the chairs crammed against the far wall in the tiny space. “Take a seat.”

Anakin does so, settling himself into one of the waiting chairs. “Something ya need?”

“Yes, yes,” Watto says, reclining in his desk chair, looking comfortable.

 _Indulgent, self-obsessed bastard_ , Anakin thinks bitterly. Everything Watto has always looks so nice, even his horribly designed patterned shirts that never fit properly around his gut. Anakin wants to buy his mom nice things. Things like that fucking desk chair with faux leather and foam padding.

“I have a job for you,” Watto says. “The car we must repossess—a young girl, newly license, bought a Zentorno from us. She is behind on payments, you see, and I do not think a teenager will make good on the payments.”

This, Anakin doesn’t buy for a second, though he can’t help his interest. A Zentorno? _Please_. Those cost over seven-hundred thousand. Anakin would need to sell all of his organs as well as Wald’s to ever own one of those, and God, how he wishes he _could_ afford one. The Zentorno, in Anakin’s expert opinion, is a work of perfection. It’s sleek, aerodynamic, wicked fast, a top-of-the-line luxury car that screams, ‘I’m rich!’ to everyone who sees it. He’d kill just to touch one, and he wants even more to open one up and see how it runs, to see how those damn geniuses at Pegassi managed to make such a glorious vehicle.

It’s also something Watto could never convince a manufacturer to give him, let alone get his hands on to sell to someone who can’t afford it in the first place. But, well, Anakin’s been on break for a week, and Watto always manages to surprise him when he returns. Last time Anakin had been gone, Watto had somehow gotten his hands on a Bravado Banshee 900R, and _those_ were over five-hundred grand.

“When the hell did we sell a Zentorno?” Anakin asks, though, wondering what Watto will come up with.

“Not too long ago,” Watto says instead of spinning some elaborate story, and Anakin can’t help but be a little disappointed by that. Now, Anakin’s beginning to wonder if Watto actually _did_ sell an Zentorno. “If you don’t want to drive a Zentorno, then I’ll have Wald do it instead.”

“No!” Anakin says, a little too quickly.

Okay, so maybe he really, really wants to drive a Zentorno, just once in his life. He’s dreamed of driving one in the desert beyond the Vinewood sign, speeding along the cracked one-lane roads with nothing but brown grass and dirt stretching towards the horizon on either side, windows rolled down, Minutemen spilling from the speakers with the volume cranked all the way up as the wind roars through the car’s interior, whipping his hair around his face and chilling his cheeks numb.

An impossible dream, but a dream nonetheless.

Watto’s looking at him with a gleam in his eyes and a smug smile on his lips, and Anakin knows he’s been caught. He gave himself away too quickly, made himself look too eager. Biting his lower lip in frustration, Anakin says, “I’ll get the car. Just tell me where it is.”

“I don’t want to see a single scratch on it, you hear?” Watto says.

“I hear ya, boss,” Anakin replies.

* * *

Anakin finds himself getting off the bus in the wealthy commercial district of Morningwood, feeling out of place among the historic theatres, expensive cars, fancy restaurants, and high-end fashion stores. He’s pretty sure everyone walking along the streets is dressed in clothing worth more than his mom’s house. He feels self conscious about his own ratty clothes—jeans distressed from too many times through the wash, a faded graphic t-shirt with a few holes in it, and a four year old denim jacket covered in patches that he’s hand-sewn on. He’s almost ashamed he had to take public transportation to get here, too; nobody else had gotten off the bus, leaving him standing alone at the bus stop, and it feels as though there’s a huge arrow pointing at him exclaiming, “I’m here to steal a car!”

Tugging his jacket tighter around his chest and ducking his head, he makes his way north, up the hill, along Morningwood Boulevard towards the residential district.

He reaches the house and wants to whistle at what he sees. It’s a wide, two story building—practically a small mansion—with a gated entrance and a large, green yard out front, neatly trimmed hedges framing the walkway to the doorstep. The garage, where Watto says the car will be, is closed. A quick attempt to open it proves fruitless—locked. He’ll have to sneak inside and get to it that way.

Walking around, he sees an open window on the second story, conveniently located next to a tiled awning that shades a truck. Anakin climbs onto the hood and scrambles onto the roof, then shimmies over to the window, peeking in.

A bathroom, unoccupied. That works.

He slides in and pauses, hearing muffled music playing from some speakers in the next room over. Glancing out into the hallway, he sees that the door is closed, and so he slinks out and down the large staircase into the front room.

The house, other than the music, is silent and empty.

Anakin didn’t think it would be this easy. Feeling somewhat relieved, he finds his way to the garage. In it is the Zentorno, electric blue with a golden trim. Twin roof scoops, hexagonal vents on the back, low to the ground and sharp in its styling. It’s gorgeous, Anakin thinks.

He doesn’t want to break its windows, harm this beautiful car in any way, so he tries the door first—

To his surprise, the car is unlocked.

Sweet.

He slides into the driver’s seat, savoring the new car smell, rubbing a hand along the leather seats, the other along the slick paneling of the wheel. He closes the door and rolls down the window, bends down to hotwire the car and feeling guilty for doing such a thing to such a glorious machine. He whispers apologies to it as he works but he itches to get a move on, to take this baby out on the road and test her out, get a taste of what it’s like to be rich enough to afford a small mansion and a luxury car.

Anakin sits up.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” says a clipped, accented voice full of venom to his right, and Anakin freezes, doesn’t dare turn because he can see in his peripheral the barrel of a gun pointed at his head through the window, almost pressed against his temple. His chest tightens and his throat closes up.

He’s no stranger to guns. He killed a couple Nightbrothers when he and Kitster had to go repossess a bike that wasn’t being paid for. A firefight had erupted and Kitster had kicked him a gun, and there had been nothing but adrenaline in his veins and sweat pouring from his face as he ran and shot and shot and ran. Somehow, the two of them had come out unscathed, and they got the bike back (the owner having been shot seemed to be a non-issue for Watto, who had resold it the next day).

But then, Anakin had had a gun in his own hands, and he hadn’t been caught completely unaware. Right now, Anakin has no other choice than to pray to God that he isn’t going to die today.

“Well?” the voice prompts, and Anakin thinks the accent must be English, or Welsh—definitely something from the U.K, not that it matters because he’s about to have his head blown off. “Care to explain?”

“I—this isn’t—I’m just trying—” Anakin stutters out, short of breath, slowly raising his hands off his lap and into the air where the man can see he’s unarmed.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the man says, then vaults across the hood of the car and yanks the passenger-side door open. He clambers in, still pointing the pistol at Anakin’s head.

Anakin turns his head slightly to glance at the man. No sudden movements, he thinks, though he’s terrified out of his mind. The man looks to be maybe five years older than Anakin, his bright, auburn hair combed back over his head and curling towards the back of his neck in an out-of-style mullet. He has a thin beard and defined cheekbones. Though Anakin can’t tell for sure, he thinks the man is wearing a suit jacket and a white button down.

“Alright,” the man says, and he’s definitely English because he sounds sort of snobby. “Take me to where you were going to go.”

“I wasn’t—” Anakin starts, then stops. “What?”

The man flicks the gun in a sharp motion towards the driveway. “Drive. Take me where you were going to take this car.”

“Look, man,” Anakin says. “I don’t want any trouble, alright?”

The man snorts. “If you weren’t looking for trouble, then explain why you snuck into my house and hotwired my charge’s car.”

“She was late on the payments, okay?” Anakin explains. “My boss didn’t think she’d make good on them, since she’s a kid.”

“Strange that she’d be late on payments,” the man sneers, “considering she got this car _yesterday_. Come on, drive.”

Anakin starts the car, listens to it purring, and wishes he was elsewhere. “Man, I don’t know,” Anakin says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I just do what I’m told, alright?”

“As much as I appreciate an idiot who doesn’t question his orders, I don’t particularly enjoy being on this end of things, nor do I take pleasure in any of this. So, let’s make this quick. Who sent you?”

“Mr. Watto. Y’know, the owner of the dealership.”

“Ah, Watto,” the man says, recognizing the name. “A royal pain in my _fucking_ ass is what that man is. I _told_ her not to…” The man breaks off with a sigh. “Take me there.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it, sir,” Anakin says.

The drive is longer than Anakin remembers it ever being. Watto calls his cell once, twice, and both times he has to let it go to voicemail because the man in the passenger seat still has the barrel of a pistol aimed at the side of Anakin’s head, and he’s not sure if the man would view him reaching for his phone as a sudden hostile move. He could be the twitchy type, and Anakin can’t tell if his finger is on the trigger or not. For the duration of the drive, the man stews in silence save for the frequent frustrated sigh. Anakin gets the feeling that, when not actively threatening someone else’s life, the man’s a very exasperated individual.

Watto’s garage comes into view. “Is that it?” the man asks.

“Yeah,” Anakin replies.

“Pull over.”

Anakin obeys, pulling over and parking the car by the side of the road. Diagonal from them across the intersection is Watto’s garage. His heart is hammering against his ribcage, the painful _thumpthumpthump_ echoing in his ears.

“I’ve no quarrel with dumbasses like you just trying to make a living,” the man says, and Anakin wants to laugh hysterically because he’s still _holding a gun to his head_ , but he keeps his mouth shut. “Your boss, on the other hand... Well.”

A beat of silence. Then, “See that big fucking window?” the man asks, pointing with his free hand at the giant glass window stretching across one of the front walls, all the displayed cars inside visible through it.

“Yeah,” Anakin says.

“Drive into it.”

“What?”

“I said, drive into it.”

Anakin tenses. For fuck’s sake… “You’re serious?”

The man sighs, sounding angry. Anakin takes that as a yes.

“The worst fucking luck,” Anakin mutters to himself, shifting the gear back into drive. “I have the worst luck. My motherfucking life _sucks_.”

He slams his foot down on the pedal and drives straight through the window of the shop. The glass shatters and the back wheels of the car hit the lip of the wall underneath, catching and halting its forward momentum. Anakin jerks forward, then his head slams back against the headrest with enough force to make him dizzy. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he opens the car door and stumbles out of the now-wrecked vehicle, clutching the back of his head. Watto rushes over from his office, shouting profanities and exclaiming, “Anakin! Anakin, what the hell?” over and over again.

The man with the gun gets out of the car, unfazed, a dangerous glint in his eye as he rounds the front of the car, shoving his gun into the back of his trousers. He pulls out a wad of cash and shoves it to Anakin’s chest. “When someone does a good job, you pay them well,” the man says, and Anakin isn’t sure who the statement is directed at, but he nods and clutches the bills tight.

He backs up as the man storms over to Watto and shoves him hard, saying, “You fraudulent _scum_ , you’ve been causing me a _lot_ of fucking problems lately.”

Watto takes a swing at the man and the man sidesteps it, then returns with his own punch that Watto fails to dodge. Watto jerks back, clutching his nose, and the man steps in, predatory and dangerous, a feral grin stretching across his face. He punches again, then delivers a kick to the knee, then another punch, wailing on Watto until he’s pushed against a wall. Watto growls and surges forward, using his mass against the man, who Anakin notices is significantly smaller in girth and one head shorter.

Watto’s attack pushes the man back towards the crashed Zentorno. Anakin realizes belatedly that he’s _rooting_ for the guy that had a gun pressed at his head mere moments ago, and he wants to step in to help the man, because Watto’s a big guy and Anakin’s had experience with fighting bigger guys—

But the man simply lets Watto steer him towards the Zentorno and yanks him forward, sending Watto off balance and tumbling to the ground. The man dances around the open driver’s door and smashes it into Watto’s face. Watto lets out a cry, stunned, and he crumbles to his hands and knees, then the man does it again. This time, Watto collapses to the ground with a pained groan, and he rolls pathetically. The man towers over him, victorious, having not even broken a sweat.

He squats down to watch Watto, cocking his head, another sneer on his lips. “If I hear that you’ve caused trouble for the Jedi _ever_ again, I will not be as merciful next time,” he says.

Anakin forgets how to breathe.

Oh god. Oh god oh god _oh god._

He tried to steal a car from a _Jedi._

The man stands, turns to look at Anakin and Anakin feels like a deer in the headlights, unable to force himself to move, unable to make himself run away, and he should be running. His brain is telling him to run, to get as far away from this man as possible, but he _can’t move_.

“Oh, you’re still here?” the man says, brows raised, and he sounds surprised, like he’d expected Anakin to have gone already, and perhaps Anakin should have but he couldn’t help it, he _enjoyed_ seeing Watto get what was coming to him but now he’s trapped here, trapped by the man’s piercing gaze, clutching the money— _Jedi_ money—so tight his hand is starting to hurt.

The man glances at Anakin’s hand, knuckles white around the thick wad of bills, and his eyes flit up and down Anakin’s body, scrutinizing his appearance.

“Anakin, huh?” the man says.

“Y-yeah,” Anakin manages to force out.

“You’re Skywalker. I’ve heard of you.”

“Oh yeah? Where?” he says, trying to keep his voice from quavering as alarm bells go off in his head. He never told the man his first name, but Watto had been shouting it earlier, so for him to know would make sense. His last name though?

He needs to leave. He needs to get away _now_.

He takes a shaky step away from the man, who has not moved. Watto crawls away on his hands and knees, but Anakin hardly notices him, eyes locked on the Jedi.

“You’re the brat that got mixed up with the Nightbrothers all those months ago, aren’t you?”

“How do you know that?” Anakin demands. No one but Kitster should know that he got in his one and only firefight with the Nightbrothers—because Kitster was _there_. And even if someone  _did_ know, they shouldn’t have been able to figure out it was _him_.

The man taps on the side of his head, smiling. “The Jedi know of everything that happens in this city, and all parties involved.”

Anakin suppresses a shudder. Did that mean they’re watching his mom too?

The man’s eyes go back to Anakin’s hand. Instinctively, he grips the money tighter, wondering if the Jedi wants it back.

“Get your car,” he commands. “I need a ride back to headquarters, and since you stole and crashed mine just moments ago, you’ll be driving me.”

Anakin bites back the “because you _told_ me to crash it” and nods, gesturing for the Jedi to follow him.

The last thing he’s going to say is ‘no’ to a Jedi. The last thing he wants is a Jedi to put a hit out on his head. His mom still needs him. If he dies, she’ll have no one, and she’ll be trapped in the dump of a house she’s been in for the last three decades, praying every night that tonight won’t be the night a stray bullet flies through the thin walls. If he dies, the dream they have of moving into a better place will die with him because she can’t make enough money as a waitress to do it on her own.

They exit through the garage. Wald is cowering behind one of his projects. Anakin tosses an apologetic glance his way, but doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

In the back, tucked into an alleyway where the small parking lot is, is Anakin’s own car—a blue Primo sedan that he’d bought fourth-hand and repaired himself. It cost him less than one grand to buy and even then he could barely afford it. Despite all the work he’s put into it to improve its mileage and its appearance, it’s still a cheap car and always has been—and in the presence of a Jedi like this man, who can throw thousands and thousands away without blinking, Anakin feels embarrassed that he owns the car at all.

But the man doesn’t bat an eye as he gets into the passenger seat.

Anakin slips behind the wheel. The Jedi holds out his hand.

Anakin raises his brows.

“Phone,” the man says. “So I can put the address in.”

“Oh,” Anakin says. “I, uh, don’t have a smartphone.”

The man sighs, longsuffering, and pulls out his own phone. He brings up the address to the location and hands it over to Anakin. It’s an iFruit 9iX smartphone, one of the most expensive smartphones on the market. “Do you really not own a smartphone? Not even a used one?”

“No,” Anakin admits, and takes the offered phone carefully, hand shaking. He props it up in the cup holder so he can see the GPS.

“And this car is definitely old,” the man observes. “Second-hand?”

“Look,” Anakin says, voice weak. “Can we just. Not talk about how I don’t have any nice, expensive things?”

The man casts a sidelong glance Anakin’s way. “I apologize,” he says.

“Apology accepted,” Anakin replies, and drives.

* * *

The directions lead them to downtown Los Santos. Alta Street is backed up past Olympic Freeway and Anakin curses rush hour traffic for forcing him to spend even more time in the car with the Jedi. He already had to spend over an hour on the freeway thanks to it. Driving there should’ve taken a total of _thirty minutes_.

The drive itself was tense. Still is. Anakin’s never had such a quiet passenger before. Lack of conversation always made him uneasy as a general anxiety thing, but the Jedi’s silence makes his skin crawl and his stomach twist. While the Jedi hasn’t made any attempt to hurt him since they got in the car, Anakin knows he still has the gun. Anything could happen. Anakin really wants nothing to happen.

After forty-something minutes of sitting behind the slowest driver in the world, Anakin pulls off to the side of the road as the GPS announces, “You’ve arrived at your destination.”

It takes him a few moments to realize they’re in front of the Maze Bank Tower. His brain takes a moment to process this information. Maze Bank Tower. Headquarters to the biggest and most corrupt banking company in the state of San Andreas.

Fuck. He didn’t try to steal from just _any_ Jedi, he tried to steal from a _big-league_ Jedi. His luck really was the worst.

“Right,” the Jedi says. “Get out of the car. You’re coming up with me.”

“What?” Anakin says. “What? No! No, the agreement was that I would drive you to work. You didn’t say anything about me going with you.”

The Jedi flashes a grin at him. “I thought it was implied. I’ll need a ride home, after all.” He pauses and one of his hands reaches into his suit jacket. “Or I could hold a gun to you again, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

So that’s where he put it. Anakin grimaces, puts the car into park, and turns it off.

“Smart lad,” the Jedi says.

Anakin follows the Jedi into the building and casts a glance over to the front desk. The lady working there catches his eyes and shoots him a sympathetic look before returning her attention to her monitor. As they enter the elevator, Anakin finds himself wondering how much she knows, or if he just looks that helpless.

They ride to the top floor. The elevator pings and the doors slide open to reveal another front desk in the center of a room, a wall behind it reading “The Order” in bronze letters. Another woman sits at this desk, typing on a laptop. She’s dark-skinned, black hair in two circular braids that drape over her shoulders and connect on the back of her head. On her forehead and between her eyes are small beads. She glances up, eyes flitting across Anakin impassively, then lighting up when they land on the Jedi next to him.

“You’re late,” she says, her tone bemused.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” the Jedi says. “I had some car troubles.”

She inclines her head towards Anakin. He can’t help but flinch when she acknowledges his presence. “Am I to presume he is the source of them?”

“As always, Depa, you wound me by implying I only bring troublemakers,” the Jedi complains, sighing dramatically and putting a hand over his heart.

“And as always, Ben, I am right,” she shoots back, and _finally_ , Anakin has a name to link to the face of his impromptu kidnapper. Ben. What an unassuming name.

Ben grins. “It’s a fair cop.”

“I’ll let Mr. Windu know you’re here,” Depa says. “He and Mr. Jinn have been waiting for you to arrive.” She then goes back to typing away on her laptop, seeming to make no move to tell anyone anything. Ben gestures for Anakin to sit in one of the waiting chairs, then leans against the front desk, chatting quietly with Depa.

Moments later, a tall black man walks through the corridor on the left side of the desk. His expression is stern and he wears a well-pressed maroon suit, accented by a red tie. Behind him is a monolith of a man, long greying hair falling down his back. Large, crooked nose, a wide forehead, kind eyes—

“Holy shit,” Anakin says, standing up. “Mr. Jinn? Mr. Qui-Gon Jinn?”

Everyone except Jinn raises their brows in surprise. A wide smile breaks out across Jinn’s face. “Ani!” he exclaims, striding across the room to clasp Anakin’s hand and shoulder. “My goodness, it’s good to see you. You’ve gotten so tall. How are you? How is your mother? How’s college?”

“What are you doing here?” Anakin asks. “You’re not a Jedi, are you?”

“I could ask you the same,” Jinn says.

“I’m sorry,” interrupts Ben. “How do you know him?”

“Oh, where are my manners?” Jinn says apologetically. “This is Anakin. He was one of my students in high school—I’m sure you remember, Obi-Wan. I spoke of him often.” Jinn turns back to Anakin. “Ani, this is my son, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan—Ben? Which is it?—scrunches his nose. He looks convincing at first, but the way he looks at Anakin gives him away. He’s going to lie. “This is him? Are you sure?” he asks. Why would he lie to Mr. Jinn? He’d known who Anakin was, back at Watto’s shop. What purpose does it serve?

“I couldn’t ever forget,” Jinn says. “He was one of my brightest students. Has quite the mind for physics and maths—oh, I’m sure he impressed everyone at his university.”

Obi-Wan raises a brow at Anakin, and Anakin shakes his head and mouths, ‘ _Please_ ,’ begging him not to say anything. Jinn would be so disappointed to find out what had happened, that Anakin had turned down going to college because he couldn’t pay, because even government loans wouldn’t have covered the cost of everything. Obi-Wan, thank God, nods.

“It sure sounds like it,” Obi-Wan agrees. “I unfortunately got into a car accident with him.” Jinn gives Obi-Wan a look and Obi-Wan’s shoulders hunch defensively. “ _Not_ my fault, for once!” Obi-Wan exclaims, the beginnings of a pout on his lips. Which, Anakin has to admit, looks adorable, and objectively, Anakin _can_ admit that Obi-Wan is attractive, now that he’s not holding a gun to him. “But he felt bad for holding me up, of course, so he offered to give me a ride here. Truly an upstanding young man.”

Jinn beams. “Of course, of course,” he says, visibly pleased. “Sounds just like the Ani I remember.” Jinn moves forward with open arms and Anakin barely has time to react before his old teacher is hugging him, thumping his back enthusiastically. “My God, Ani, it is _wonderful_ to see you again, though I wish the circumstances were a little better! Don’t worry about the damage to Obi-Wan’s car, though. We wouldn’t want to cut into your college funds. We can take care of it ourselves.”

“Thanks,” Anakin manages weakly, casting a glance at Obi-Wan, who shrugs and looks away. Anakin feels baffled, mostly, because Obi-Wan didn’t have to lie like that, or say any of those things about him. Obi-Wan had literally _threatened_ him at gunpoint for stealing his friend’s car, yet he lies to his father about what Anakin has done.

Anakin wonders what their relationship is like, when it’s just the two of them.

“Oh!” Jinn says, seeming to remember where he is and who he’s with. He lets go of Anakin and places a hand on his shoulder, guiding him over to the imposing man in the maroon suit, “And this is Mace Windu, my boss. He runs this branch of the Order.”

Windu’s eyes sweep over Anakin, and the expression he wears seems unimpressed.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Windu,” Anakin says, holding out a hand. It’s definitely not nice to meet him. In fact, Anakin’s half-convinced this is some sort of feverish nightmare he’s experiencing, because there’s no way in hell his old, kindly, supportive high school teacher is a murderous, bloodthirsty, psychopathic Jedi.

Mr. Windu grasps his hand in a firm, intimidating shake. “My pleasure, young Skywalker,” he says, and it sounds more like this whole situation is an annoyance to him, a waste of his time. Anakin is used to being a waste of someone’s time. It’s what he was in high school to Jinn, even if his old teacher doesn’t seem to think of it that way.

Having gotten formalities out of the way, Mr. Windu disregards Anakin. Anakin takes the moment to step back and put some distance between himself and the intimidating group of people in front of him. He needs to get some air. Which he won’t be allowed to get, since he’s got to stay and drive Obi-Wan home after his meeting, but he doesn’t want to stand near the Jedi anymore.

They exude an acute aura of danger. Even Jinn, who had only ever been kind to him. He doesn’t how to fit the image of what he knows of the Jedi with the man he knew in high school.

“So, Ani,” Jinn says, and Anakin wants to groan. Why can’t he get away for just a few seconds? “What are you doing down here? Shouldn’t you be at school right now?”

“Oh, you know,” Anakin says, waving a hand and looking away. “Finished early. Just… paying off loans now.”

With a laugh, Jinn says, “Of course you did. Didn’t I tell you he was a genius, Obi-Wan?” Obi-Wan nods, but he crosses his arms and stares at a spot on Depa’s desk. There’s a furrow to his brow and a slight frown tugging at his lips. Jinn doesn’t notice, though, all his attention focused on Anakin. “What are you up to these days, then?”

“Well, I fix cars, mostly. I like fixing cars, so I thought, why not, y’know?” Anakin replies, stumbling over his words. He’s always been a bad liar, and this instance is no exception. If Jinn can see through the lie, though, he doesn’t say. “Drive ‘em too, sometimes, but fixing cars doesn’t make that much money, but I couldn’t get a job down here that made much anyway, and I didn’t want to leave my mom by herself anymore, so I didn’t go for any jobs outside Los Santos. I don’t drive anything nice currently—though I’d like to—I’m still supporting Mom, so...”

Anakin trails off and scratches the back of his head as he casts his gaze to the ground.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes. He looks up at Jinn, who’s smiling. “I get it, Ani. I do. It’s rough, when your family has no money. Sacrifices have to be made. I’m glad you love your mother so much, though. God knows where I’d be if Obi-Wan wasn’t around to take care of me.”

Jinn claps Anakin’s shoulder. “Tell you what. We need someone to drive us to our next meeting. If you’re tight on cash right now, I’d be happy to pay you to be behind the wheel. I hate driving, and Obi-Wan normally doesn’t like to for this kind of work, so if you’re amenable—”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, Mr. Jinn,” Anakin says. “I’m not looking for handouts.”

“Just call me Qui-Gon, Ani,” Jinn says. “And it’s not a handout, it’s a job offer.”

“Hold on, Qui-Gon,” Mr. Windu cuts in. “Don’t just be offering people jobs when we haven’t vetted them. Besides, Obi-Wan does fine behind the wheel.”

“He always complains about driving for these jobs, though” Jinn replies. “Says he’d rather not have to worry about it. Don’t you, Obi-Wan?”

“I’m neither confirming nor denying that,” Obi-Wan quips. He waves a dismissive hand in Anakin’s direction. “Either way, he’s a civilian. We shouldn’t get him involved.”

 _You already got me involved_ , Anakin wants to say, but doesn’t.

“I’ll pay him out of my own pockets,” Jinn insists. “He doesn’t have to know anything specific, just where to take us.”

Mr. Windu sighs a long, put-upon sigh. Anakin thinks he hears Obi-Wan mutter something about ‘pathetic lifeforms,’ but he ignores it. Mostly, he’s surprised that he’s getting offered a job by the Jedi in their office lobby. It seems unprofessional—but then again, Mr. Jinn has always been like that, even as a teacher.

After what seems like an age of deliberation, Mr. Windu nods. “Fine, Qui-Gon. I trust your judgement.” He turns to Anakin. “What do you say? Are you willing to drive? I won’t be able to give you any details unless you’ve agreed, so think hard about it.”

Anakin worries his lower lip. “How much would I get paid?”

“Fifteen an hour, including time spent waiting for us to finish our meeting,” Jinn says without missing a beat.

Damn. That’s way better than what Watto’s been paying him since he got hired. “I’ll do it.”

Jinn beams. Obi-Wan moves from his spot near Depa’s desk and grabs Jinn’s arm. “We need to talk,” he says, bitterness lacing his voice, his gaze on Anakin sharp as a knife and just as deadly.

Anakin watches as Obi-Wan drags Jinn off, behind the lobby. Mr. Windu gestures for Anakin to follow. He nods to Depa as they pass through to what seems to be a larger hallway. There’s a conference room with glass walls, and another two rooms with large windows. Inside of one is Obi-Wan and Jinn. From outside, Anakin can see that Obi-Wan is shouting—but not a sound comes out.

“Soundproof room,” Mr. Windu explains folding his hands behind his back. “Usually we have them so no one hears sensitive information being discussed. But they get used for this sort of thing just as often.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” Anakin says, “but do they argue often? I mean, when I had Mr. Jinn—er, Qui-Gon—as a teacher he… seemed like he would be a good dad.”

Anakin had always secretly wanted Qui-Gon to be his father. It had seemed like Jinn was single—he’d made no comments about a wife or girlfriend, nor did he mention children. Anakin and the other students would ask, but he’d always dodge or deflect their questions with a joke and a cheeky smile. Anakin had spent weeks wishing that something would happen—that Qui-Gon would meet his mom and fall in love, or Qui-Gon would reveal that he was Anakin’s father after all, but couldn’t say because he wanted to keep his family safe. Or he’d pull Anakin aside one day and tell him he was his father and he was sorry for running away, but he was there now, and they could be a family. He’d daydreamed about so many possibilities that sometimes it felt like the man who tutored him after school hours, held him when he cried, and encouraged him to stand up to the toughest bullies in high school was actually his father.

But looking through the window, seeing Qui-Gon’s own son in a shouting match that he can’t hear, Anakin wonders if he’d misread his old teacher the whole time.

“They have a… tense relationship,” Mr. Windu says. “That’s putting it kindly.”

He pauses. “We best leave them to hash it out on their own,” Mr. Windu finally says. “They’re always composed for the job, so you don’t have to worry about that.” Anakin’s a little disappointed, he won’t lie. He’s curious, now, about Obi-Wan, about what happened between him and his father. But Mr. Windu’s not going to volunteer any more information—that much is obvious—and Anakin doesn’t dare ask for more. “Come to my office, and I’ll go over the details of the job with you.”

* * *

Anakin gets to the meeting point an hour too early. He pulls into a dirt lot next to a rundown factory called “Darnell Bros”, with fogged windows and stained red brick walls. He parks next to the overpass crossing the river towards Vespucci Blvd. and sits on the hood of his car, watching the sun set behind the city’s skyline.

Once the meeting time arrives, two other cars pull into the lot. One of them is sleek, black, armored on all sides and windows blocked save for heavily tinted slits that he cannot see into. Qui-Gon and Mr. Windu get out of a red Bestia GTS (expensive, Anakin notes in the back of his mind, costing over 600 grand) while the armored vehicle pulls into the space under the overpass. He doesn’t recognize the armored car, though, and that bothers him for some reason. He doesn’t know why it does—it’s not like he’d know armored cars—but it does, because he _knows_ cars, but he doesn’t know _this_ one.

“Skywalker,” Mr. Windu greets, voice impassive, all business. “Please move your vehicle under the overpass and trade positions with Obi-Wan. The Kuruma should suffice for this meeting.”

“What’s with the armor? We expecting a shootout?” Anakin asks as Obi-Wan exits the car, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the trunk. He eyes up the armored Kuruma. It’s a four door sedan, covered in thick plating that glints in the dusk light. The car is black—black paint job, black secondary, black rims, tinted black windows—

He recognizes the name of model, and looking at the car now, he’s surprised he couldn’t place it. It looks exactly like it’s unarmored counterpart.

The armor part is worrying. How much trouble are the Jedi expecting, exactly?

“It’s merely a precaution,” Mr. Windu says mildly. “In case things go wrong. We don’t expect them to, though. We’ve been informed that the meeting should go smoothly and made very clear the consequences should they not.”

Qui-Gon gives him a reassuring smile. “We’ve done this many times before with the Naboo. They’ve always been amenable to our requests. We have no reason to suspect this time to be any different.”

With a huff, Anakin slides back into his own vehicle and moves it next to the Kuruma. The Kuruma is a beautiful car, he thinks, and he doesn’t want to know what it looks like with bullet shaped dents in its sides and its hood. He wonders what his mom would think if she knew he were taking jobs with the Jedi. She’d surely be disappointed that her only son would resort to crime for money. Didn’t she raise him better than that, she’d say. What happened to her baby boy, who was afraid of guns and drugs and gangs?

The only problem is he’s stuck now. He hasn’t been back to Watto’s in days, and he’s pretty sure he’s fired anyway, after what happened with the Zentorno. He needs the money, and the Jedi are willing to pay well just to have a good chauffeur.

 _Maybe I’m worrying about nothing_ , Anakin thinks. Mr. Windu seemed confident that nothing will go wrong, and both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon seem unruffled as well. This could be a good gig. Chauffeuring Jedi around to their meetings. The money is _really_ good and Anakin could avoid the violence, keep his hands from getting dirty with blood. He’s just the driver, after all. They won’t be paying him to _know_ anything. They’ll just be paying him to get them where they want to go and to keep quiet about it.

Anakin takes in a breath. He gets out of his car and locks it, gives his keys to Mr. Windu, and holds out his hand for the keys to the Kuruma from Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan catches his eye, nods. Mouths, ‘it’ll be alright.” Anakin doesn’t think about how Obi-Wan’s hand lingers over his as he gives away the keys.

 _I’ll be fine_ , Anakin thinks as he leans back in the crisp leather seat behind the wheel. _We’ll be fine_.

* * *

They drive into the desert north of Los Santos for two hours. Night is falling and traffic flows steadily, few other cars on the road, and Anakin’s thankful for the easy drive. The Kuruma, while quick to accelerate and brake, handles poorly for the most part, and it likes to slide on turns, even when Anakin’s going relatively slow. And so it’s fortunate that the route they take is mostly shallowly curving roads and straightaways.

At the end of the route guidance, Anakin pulls up alongside a large, nondescript warehouse. In the distance, Anakin can see the bright LEDs that hover over the biggest prison in the region. He doesn’t like the proximity to it, but aside from some nearly abandoned neighborhoods and a trailer park, there’s nothing else nearby.

Obi-Wan hands Qui-Gon a pistol from the back seats. “It’s loaded, safety’s on, make sure it’s hidden,” he says. He then sits back and Anakin looks in the rearview to watch what he’s doing. Between one blink and the next, Obi-Wan’s holding a shotgun and loading it.

“Hold on,” Anakin says. “What the fuck are those for?”

“Self defense,” Obi-Wan says, and he pumps the shotgun, staring straight at him through the rearview. Anakin flinches.

“Alright, Ani,” Qui-Gon says, gently. “You’re going to wait down the road, a few blocks away. We don’t expect it to go poorly, but in case it does, be ready for a quick pick-up. We’ll send you a text message to let you know when to show up.”

Before he can ask how they plan to do that, Obi-Wan hands Anakin a phone. “Burner. We’ll just toss it after we’re done.”

Fuck, they’re using burner phones? What the Hell did Anakin get himself into?

“You wearing your body armor, Dad?” Obi-Wan asks as he throws the shotgun strap around his shoulder.

“I am.”

“I’ll take point, so stay behind me,” Obi-Wan says.

“Of course.”

“Anything goes wrong, you leave without me, understand? I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says, and he sounds like he means it.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Obi-Wan says in response.

“We’ll be fine. We always are.”

Obi-Wan breathes in, then exhales slowly. “Alright. It’s showtime.”

Both open their doors and leave the car. Qui-Gon slaps his hand against the hood two times and gives Anakin a thumbs up before following Obi-Wan to the door of the warehouse. Anakin takes a deep breath and drives off, leaving them to do whatever dangerous as fuck thing they’re gonna do.

He can only pray that they’re right, and that everything will be fine.

Anakin stays in the driver’s seat as asked and keeps the engine running. The surrounding area is black save for the glow of his headlights and the distant beams of other cars on the desert highways. The night is silent and the thermometer on his dash reads forty degrees Fahrenheit—surprisingly cold for the month.

An hour goes by, but it feels more like five. There’s still no activity. Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan haven’t yet returned. He wonders if that means the meeting is going well.

As he drums his fingers along the top of the steering wheel, a crack shatters the quiet. Anakin jumps in his seat as he hears the _rattattat_ of burst fire. Squinting in the direction of the warehouse, he sees nothing.

Another crack. Then a third. More burst fire, from multiple weapons.

Anakin stares dumbly in the darkness.

His burner phone buzzes. He picks it up and sees a message from an unknown sender.

 _Extraction required,_ it reads.

More gunfire, with greater frequency. Anakin shifts the gear into drive and speeds over to the warehouse. He jerks the wheel to one side and slams on the breaks, and the car whips around, sending up dust. He’s stopped in front of the warehouse entrance, passenger side facing the front door. The doors are unlocked—as soon as both his passengers are in and the doors are being shut, he’s getting them all out of here. It’s obvious the whole thing went south. He can still hear guns going off and his skin crawls at his proximity to the sound. Every instinct in his body is telling him to flee—but he knows he if does, the Jedi will hunt him down as recompense. So he ignores his instincts and stays.

Then suddenly, everything goes silent.

Time passes—too long for Anakin’s comfort, and it’s far too quiet. He begins to wonder if he should get out and check inside, despite his orders.

Just as he’s deciding to get out of the car, the entrance flies open, spilling light onto the road. Obi-Wan lurches out of the building, covered in blood and limping. The shotgun he’d started with is missing and he grunts with the effort of dragging something large behind him.

“Holy shit,” Anakin says, and opens his door so he can help.

“Stay in the _fucking_ car!” Obi-Wan shouts as Anakin sets one foot on the dirt road. Anakin freezes, then puts his foot back in the car and closes the door. Obi-Wan yanks open the passenger door and, with difficulty, hefts up the thing he’s been dragging—Jesus Christ, it’s a _body_ —and tenderly sets it in the front seat, then starts gently rearranging limbs.

It’s Qui-Gon.

Anakin could barely tell because of the blood—and there’s so much of it, spilling from his broken nose and half-open mouth, from his chest. His chest is barely visible underneath a mess of torn flesh and ruined cloth and Anakin knows they’re bullet wounds, he’s seen them before, but he can’t even count how many Qui-Gon has. Qui-Gon’s eyes are glazed over, staring at nothing, and Anakin can’t tell if he’s breathing or not. He looks past where Obi-Wan is buckling Qui-Gon’s limp body into the seat and sees the trail of blood left from dragging him.

“What happened?” Anakin asks, stupidly.

“We were made,” Obi-Wan replies and slams the passenger door shut. He climbs into the back and lays out across the seats with a hiss. Anakin glances in the rearview and sees Obi-Wan is clutching his side. “Drive, Skywalker,” he demands, his voice tight.

Anakin obeys. Obi-Wan groans. Qui-Gon is silent.

Something explodes behind them, the sound deafening, and the car shakes. Anakin looks at the rearview mirror and sees the warehouse has erupted into flames. He sees Obi-Wan is sitting up now, one arm looped around a headrest, watching the destruction through the back window. His fingers are curled loosely around a detonator, thumb still pressing down on the button.

Anakin focuses on the road ahead of him and drives.

* * *

“Pull over here,” Obi-Wan says, tapping Anakin on the shoulder and gesturing to a building off the side of the road. There’s a cracked cement parking lot with a large number of vehicles parked in its spaces and a big, neon sign spelling out the word ‘BAR’, the R blinking on and off. Confused, Anakin pulls off the road into the lot. The building is rundown, walls covered in water stains and scuff marks, but the lights are on, shining through the windows and inside, Anakin can see the silhouettes of multiple people. At first, he had thought it was a safehouse of some sort disguised as a bar, a place where they could hunker down and tend to wounds, but now that they’re close, Anakin can see that it’s just a bar.

“You don’t have to park,” Obi-Wan continues. “Drop me off at the front.”

As Anakin slows the Kuruma down in front of the building’s entrance, he says, “Wait, why?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t answer. Instead, he opens the back door and slides out of the car. He stumbles away from the vehicle and his hand shoots up to his right side. He clutches the roof of the car with his other hand, hunched over and breathing hard through his nose. Before Anakin can say anything, Obi-Wan straightens up. He closes the back door and turns towards the bar entrance.

“Wait!” Anakin shouts, hurriedly jamming the button to roll down the window. “Wait, Obi-Wan!”

Obi-Wan stops and looks back. “What?”

“What about—but Qui-Gon—” Anakin says, panicked, and puts the car in park. Qui-Gon still hasn’t moved in his seat, blood oozing sluggishly from multiple wounds. The carpeted mat on the car floor is saturated red. Anakin hasn’t had the chance to check if he’s alive or not, but if he is, then what the Hell are they stopped for? “He needs medical attention! We need to meet up with Mr. Windu,” Anakin says.

With a snort, Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Medical attention won’t do shit for him anymore.” Then he goes inside the bar.

What the fuck, Anakin thinks. What the _fuck_.

He doesn’t know what to do. Qui-Gon’s fucking dead in the seat next to him, Obi-Wan’s ditched him for _booze_ , and he can’t fucking call his mom about this.

He panic dials Mr. Windu instead.

“Skywalker, I’m assuming it’s you,” greets Mr. Windu in a voice filled with venomous impatience. “Where the _fuck_ are you?”

“Obi-Wan had us pull over to a bar. He went inside. Qui-Gon’s dead. It all went wrong. I don’t know what happened, I wasn’t there, but there’s a lot of blood and Qui-Gon’s next to me in the car, fucking _dead_ , and Obi-Wan just left him here with me! What do I do? Should I leave him? I don’t know, I just, that’s wrong, right? Like, this is his _dad_ , sitting _dead_ next to me, this is really fucked up, holy shit—”

Anakin’s breathing becomes erratic. His chest feels tight and his throat closes up. Oh god, he can’t breathe. Fuck me, Anakin thinks, I’m having a panic attack while on the phone with _Windu_ , and distantly, he acknowledges that it isn’t his proudest moment, but he hasn’t had a lot of those lately anyway.

“For god’s sake, Kenobi,” Anakin hears. Windu’s voice sounds distant, like he moved away from the phone to say it. “Skywalker, you’ll be fine. You’ve been doing great. I’m sorry that this happened and that you had to witness it. Breathe with my count though, okay? We’ll count three in, three out.”

And to add to the fucked up, surreal night Anakin’s been having, Mr. Windu counts him through a panic attack. He does it like he’s done it a million times for a million different people, and Anakin wonders how many have broken down on him like this.

“You good?” he asks when Anakin’s regained a more normal rhythm to his breathing.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Anakin replies, breathless. “I’m good.”

“Good. Go drag Kenobi out from that bar. The last thing we need is for him to get blackout drunk and start a fight. Was he injured?”

“He took a nasty hit to the side. Couldn’t tell where exactly, though, there was a lot of blood and he didn’t let it show, really.”

“He’s gonna get himself killed tonight,” Mr. Windu groans. “Go retrieve him. I’ll speak to him about all this when you’ve made it back.”

“You got it, boss,” Anakin says. Mr. Windu ends the call and Anakin sucks in a breath, rolls his shoulders, and mentally prepares himself.

He leaves the relative safety of the Kuruma and heads into the bar.

The inside smells like tobacco smoke and piss and stale sweat. Anakin almost gags when it hits him. He covers his mouth and nose and squints around the dimly lit room for Obi-Wan.

He spots the man almost immediately, curled over a pint glass at the bar, one hand wrapped around the half-empty glass and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. Anakin pushes past a few groups loitering around the entryway with their drinks and makes a beeline for Obi-Wan. When he gets there, he notices three empty glasses next to him, and there’s no one sitting next to Obi-Wan, who reeks of iron and gunpowder, so Anakin can only presume that those glasses belong to him.

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. Obi-Wan doesn’t respond, so Anakin grabs his shoulder and gives it a shake. “Obi-Wan,” he says again, with more force in his tone.

“Fuck off,” comes the slurred mumble.

“Nope,” Anakin says, and knowing that Obi-Wan’s definitely drunk makes him feel more confident about getting him out of here. Obi-Wan might act belligerent, but Anakin’s pretty sure he can take a drunk guy—especially one too injured to actually fight. “We’re leaving. Windu wants us to report back to him, remember?”

“Mace can wait,” Obi-Wan growls.

“He really can’t,” Anakin says with a scowl. “And I’m not gonna wait anymore either. It’s not just your own life you’re wasting, it’s mine too. Besides, who the fuck wants to get drunk in a place like this? Don’t you have a really nice house to go get drunk in?”

Obi-Wan lifts his head to glare at Anakin for that. His eyes are ringed red and there are dried tear tracks down his cheeks.

He’s been crying.

Anakin feels his strong emotions fade. Right, he remembers, and he presses his lips into a thin line. Obi-Wan just lost his father. Violently. Gruesomely. In a way no one should ever have to lose their dad. “Hey,” he says in a gentler tone. “We really gotta go. You need to get your injury looked at, before it gets infected.”

Obi-Wan bites his lower lip and looks back at the drink in his hand. He scrubs at his left eye. “Fine. Fine, let’s fucking go, then. Christ.” He fumbles for his wallet and pulls out a handful of bills, slaps them down on the table, and stumbles off the stool. Anakin catches him before he can fall, but Obi-Wan pushes off him.

Anakin leads him to the car and helps him into the back, laying him down across the seats. He’s never been shot before, but he’s had some pretty bad crashes in the past and knows how to hold his guts in, at least, so he strips off his jacket, presses it against the injury in Obi-Wan’s side, then places Obi-Wan’s hands over it and presses down. Obi-Wan lets out an indiscernible curse. “Just keep putting pressure on here. You’ve lost a lot of blood, you shouldn’t lose any more.”

“I know how to handle it, Skywalker,” Obi-Wan snaps. “It’s one of the few things in my life I can do right.”

Well, Anakin thinks. He’ll have to unpack that comment later, when he’s not wanting to punch Obi-Wan for being a complete asshole. “Of course you do, buddy,” he says, and the furious look Obi-Wan sends his way is enough to let Anakin know that he took the demeaning comment for what it was.

They drive to the rendezvous in silence. Anakin keeps one ear open the whole time, listening for Obi-Wan’s haggard breathing.

The last thing he needs, after all, is for both his passengers to be dead by the end of this.


End file.
